One Last Breath
by johannarenee
Summary: Sherlock and John have new things to deal with. Moriarty is back in town, and so is someone special.


"Sherlock, look at this," Watson pushed the days' newspaper across the table, the ruffling of the papers broke the stiff silence that haunted the room. Usually, at this early hour, other households would be filled with the scent of pancakes and biscuits wafting from the kitchen, but this was the Holmes' house, where the only fragrance was the stale coffee and gunshots had replaced John's need for alarm clocks.

Sherlock peered up from his microscope for a mere second before he returned to his study. "New case?" His fingers fumbled with the knobs on the sides of the microscope, adjusting the focus of the lens, mumbling what sounded to John like gibberish under his breath.

"Yes, well, aren't you going to read it?"

"Busy." Sherlock replied succinctly.

"Alright." John heaved a sigh and reached across the table to grab the papers. He cleared his throat before beginning. "Thirteen year old, Lucy Gold, was last seen at the Tempston Plaza, walking up the stairs to her dance teacher's studio at seven in the morning three days ago and has been missing since. There were no signs of people around there when she arrived. There was no body or blood found, and the police are still on the search." He folded the newspapers. "Well? What do you think?"

"Bo-ring," Sherlock said in a sing-a-song tone.

"Come on, Sherlock. You haven't had a good case since Magnussen's. You have to do something!"

Sherlock's looked up from the microscope, a sly smile on his face. "Don't you mean _you_ want to do something?"

John rolled his eyes. "No, Sher-"

"Admit it. You crave it, John. You want that adrenaline rush, that tingling in your spine. You want to be thrilled, you want to twist your mind and think in ways you never thought was possible, you want to see the blood, hold a gun, but why, John? Because you _love_ it."

"Bloody hell, Sherlock, I most certainly do not!"

"Oh, come on! The last time you had a bomb strapped to your chest, a gun in your hand, you were happy. You want adventure, danger. It's what you live for. Staying in the house, caring for your wife, domesticality is just not your thing. You want this case! When was the last time you ran, anyway? You've gained at least ten pounds since the last time I sa-"

"Alright, alright! I want the case! There, happy?" Watson threw his hands in the air, face flushed red with embarrassment and frustration.

Sherlock grinned and got up, walking towards the door while John watched, confusion creased into the lines of his forehead.

"So that's it, you're taking the case now?"

Sherlock pulled on his black coat, tugging at the collar. "Of course. I couldn't miss this opportunity. Lestrade told me about it yesterday. Why would I turn down such an offer? A teenager gone missing, Moriarty is back, I wouldn't miss it for the world." He slipped out the door, nearly bumping into Ms. Hudson.

"Going out again?" She held a tray of tea in her hands, the smell of dish soap and biscuits clung to her bright purple sweater. "It's hardly six o'clock!"

"New case, Ms. Hudson!" Holmes planted a chaste kiss on the lady's cheek. "Fun, at last!"

Ms. Hudson scowled. "But I just made tea! And Sherlock, you smell horrible! At least go shower! You're killing all my plants." She set the tray on the table in front of Holmes' chair, blowing off the thin layer of dust that had settled upon it. And it was true, Sherlock Holmes reeked of an unearthly mix of cigarette smoke (no matter how hard he tried not smoking), sweat, and what appeared to be dried blood.

"I don't have time to take mortal showers, Ms. Hudson," Sherlock said as he adjusted the scarf at his neck. "Cleaning is for bored, ordinary, people with nothing to do. It's a waste of my time."

"Sherlock, you don't want to go outside smelling like a nasty dog, living on the streets." She turned to John. "John, please tell him to go shower. He never listens to me." She left the room, leaving behind a trail of silence. "Have fun you two."

Watson sat back in his chair and picked up a cup of tea, looking at Sherlock from the corner of his eye. "You heard her. Go shower."

"Not when there is an important case! And for your information, some people _like_ the smell of dogs."

John cupped a hand at his ear. "Oh, what's that? I think I hear the neighbors complaining."

"You people make me sick," the detective moaned as he stripped off his coat and threw it across the room, towards the wall marked heavily with gun wounds and a bright yellow, acrylic smiley face.

"It's only our job." John took a sip of the tea, allowing the warmth of it to seep into his stomach.

Sherlock muttered some complaints as he headed to the bathroom. "We leave as soon as I'm done. And don't go into my bedroom."

John's eyebrows raised at the last comment. The last time Sherlock had hid anything in his room was when he had slept with Janine, even though their "relationship" hadn't lasted for long. The consulting detective had a tendency to keep certain things from his brother, but even John had been allowed to know about Janine. He cleared his throat. "Of course, I won't."

"Good," and with that, Sherlock slammed the bathroom door shut with impatience. John swore he could hear Ms. Hudson's sigh of disapproval from downstairs.

As soon as the sound of running water filled the room, John set down his tea and walked lightly to Sherlock's bedroom, careful not to let the floorboards creak as he tiptoed past the restroom. He rested a hand on the doorknob, hesitant. He wasn't the kind to invade people's privacy, and he hated it when others invaded his, but this was Sherlock Holmes, his best friend, and John had every right to know what was behind the door. He inched the door open slowly, knowing that the hinges hadn't been oiled in a while, just a slight crack so that he could poke his head through just enough to see everything.

Clothes littered the dark, mahogany floor, not a surprise, until his eyes laid upon a black, lacy bra. His mouth hung open, as he scanned the floor and found a dark burgundy dress and a pair of black heels. _Oh dear god_. He looked up onto the king sized bed he had insisted _not_ to share with Sherlock back when John first moved in. There, laying comfortably among the white sheets, raven black waves fanned upon the white pillows, skin pure and silky, completely exposed, was Irene Adler.

John did all in his power not to scream. He closed his eyes, cursing under his breath and pulling the door closed. _How is this possible? She's supposed to be dead! Executed in Karachi! Head chopped off and all! There was a body, proof, files, everything they needed to know for sure that she had died! So how was it possible for the same woman to be before him now, and in _Sherlock Holmes' _bedroom!_ And he thought he had seen enough of fake deaths! Furious, he stormed to the bathroom, taking a deep breath before knocking on the door.

"Sherlock!"

"Yes, John?" Sherlock called over the noise of the shower.

"Do you have uh...anything to tell me?" He heard the water turn off and the shower curtain being dragged open. In a few short seconds, the door to the bathroom swung open, and there stood the magnificent 'I don't like putting my clothes on' Sherlock Holmes, wrapped in nothing but a towel.

"You were saying?" He let go of one hand on the towel and ran his fingers through his hair, allowing half of the covering to drop, exposing his chiseled, toned chest. John cringed and looked away.

"For god's sake, Sherlock, go put on some clothes!"

Holmes narrowed his eyes, frowning. "First you tell me to shower, now you tell me to put clothes on. What's next, go eat my vegetables?"

Watson rolled his eyes, carefully avoiding looking at the nearly naked Sherlock. "Just. Go!"

With a harumph, Sherlock marched back to the bathroom. "I fear that Mycroft is rubbing off on you, Watson." He emerged within a few seconds in a dark purple button down shirt and black suit pants. "Come on now, we have a case to solve!"

Outside, the air was fresh and crisp as the city started to awaken and John could still smell the rain from last night as he walked on the damp pavement of the sidewalk. The sky was a blue canvas for the sun's pastel rays, creating a masterpiece of sunrise. Sherlock hailed down a taxi and John ducked in behind him.

"Tempston Plaza, please," Holmes told the driver before staring out the window. His eyes, a sharp blue, were constricted, and John knew too well that he had gone deep into his mind palace.

Their taxi rides were often full of silence, and occasionally the sound of Sherlock soliloquizing about the strangest things. But today was different, John had questions in need of answers and he was determined to get them as soon as possible.

"Sherlock, do you um… have anything you want to tell me?"

He looked at John, one eyebrow raised. "Nothing, why?"

John frowned. "Are you sure. Nothing at all?"

Sherlock nodded calmly. "Yes. I'm sure." Then he went back to watching the world whiz by the window, sinking back into his thoughts.

_Stupid detective._ Why would Sherlock hide it from him? Even when he was hiding Jeanine from Mycroft, he had let John know, and even invited him and Mary to dinner. Why was Irene Adler any different? Unless what Mycroft had said that day at the diner was true, that Sherlock did have feelings for her. And John couldn't help but to let his mind linger on the thought of Sherlock in love. True love, this time, not just for a case.

And then he remembers, the way Sherlock had stumbled on words when she was around, his mind clearly muddled, the way he looked at her every time. Could the great consulting detective really have fallen for the dominatrix?

They arrive at Tempston at half past seven. After John had paid for the ride, (because Sherlock had no time to waste for even the simplest tasks), they walked into the plaza. Police tape surrounded the area, along with signs of "DO NOT CROSS." Several police cars were parked down the street around the plaza.

"Lestrade," Sherlock said as the police strided over.

"Sherlock Holmes. Saved from an exile, eh?" Lestrade took a hand out of the pocket of his light brown coat and Sherlock shook it firmly. "Thanks to that… Moriarty."

"Yes, I suppose. Now tell me more about this case." Holmes ducked under a strip of police tape while John and Lestrade followed closely behind. "The girl's disappearance?"

"Of course," Lestrade jogged up to Sherlock's side. "Our victim, Lucy Gold. Thirteen years old. Has a mother, father is dead, no siblings. Likes to dance. Ballet. Everyday after school-"

"Why are you telling me this?" Sherlock muttered as his eyes scanned the ground, looking for clues.

"Because, that," Lestrade pointed to the building's second floor, "Is her dance class."

Sherlock's eyes followed the police's gaze to a bright blue sign reading, "Madame Mimi's School of Ballet" in bold, black, cursive letters. "American. The teacher's American," the detective deduced. John had watched Sherlock do this many times, but he was always just as fascinated as the first time he saw him work.

"It wasn't always here, though. The sign is about thirty years old, the building is hardly ten. You see, the background of the sign is faded, but the letters have been repainted, you can still see a little bit of the white in the back, because the background was so faded that it became hard to see the white letters, so they had to repaint it. They moved here about five years ago. Most likely to get a bigger space. May I go inside?"

"Yes, but please do be aware that the teacher is still inside and she has been a bit… traumatized, by what's happened so I suggest you to-"

"Perfect!" Sherlock exclaimed. "I must question her!"

"Sherlock!" But before Lestrade could say anything else, Sherlock was already practically flying up the flight of stairs that led to the second floor.

He caught his breath at the door before opening it. Classical music bursted from the stereo in the far right corner of the room. Sherlock caught the reflection of a middle aged woman with her blonde hair tucked in a bun on the mirror stretched out across one wall. The creases in her forehead indicating her worry. Her blue eyes were brimmed with tears as she dabbed a tissue to her cheek.

"Sir? Who are you? Are you here for a report?" Her English accent was light and her voice broken from crying.

Lestrade and John appeared behind Sherlock, their breaths ragged from chasing the detective up the flight of stairs. "Oh. Miss Roxanne, this is Sherlock Holmes."

"Mister Lestrade, I'm sorry but I told you I do not wish to talk to the media." Roxanne blew her nose into the wrinkled, overused tissue.

"Yes, I understand, but-" Lestrade began.

"I am Sherlock Holmes, detective," Sherlock interrupted. "This," he gestured to John, who stepped beside him shyly, "Is my partner, John Watson."

"Colleague. Not partner." John added quickly as Sherlock gave him a sharp glance. "Just to… um… clear things up a bit."

"Well, I apologize. These few days have been so difficult, I hope you understand, Mr. Holmes. You see, Lucy was one of my best, most promising students. I just never thought this type of thing would ever happen around here and to such a young girl." She bit her lips to stop the coming shower of sobs.

"California?"

The dance teacher's eyebrows furrowed in surprise. "Excuse me?"

"You're from California? American. Came here about five years ago. Your accent is fairly light. You do not have children, but there's the white fur on the hem of your skirt. Cat. Divorced, recently, too. The absence of the ring on your finger says it all. The skin where it used to be is lighter than the skin around it. You wore the ring often. But you have taken it off. And you don't wear other pieces of jewelry, therefore it was a wedding ring. He was a drunkard, abused you, so you decided to end it. Moved to England, because," he gasped, "You want to see him again, don't you? He's here, you've been looking for him. For five years, but you never did find him. That's why you moved the dance class. Because he wasn't there."

Roxanne was left speechless. "I-I..."

"Yes, I forgot to warn you. He does that," John sighed. "Come on Sherlock, you can interrogate the poor woman some other time. You've already scared her out of her mind."

"Shut up, John. I need to talk to her right now." Sherlock turned to the pale woman. Her eyes stared at him in horror. "Now please, miss, tell me everything you know."

When she didn't reply, John elbowed Sherlock. "Perhaps over a cup of coffee?"

"Lucy Gold. Where do I ever begin?" They were in a small coffee shop across the street, each holding a cup of the warm liquid, except for the great Sherlock Holmes, who had insisted on pulling out his cigarette, despite the 'no smoking indoors' rule. Roxanne seemed to have recovered from her initial shock and after talking to Lestrade privately outside, agreed to talk to the detective.

"She was eight when she first came to my studio. I had rented out an old place just big enough to be a dance studio. She was awfully talented, she would come for my advanced classes every day. One day, I found out that she was an orphan. She lived with a nice old lady, Ms. Woods, who had taken care of her since she was a baby. She was like a daughter to me.

I gave her the spare keys to the new dance studio. She came and went whenever she wanted, often leaving little notes telling me when she had been here. But she hadn't left a note, this time, which is weird."

"Unwanted." Sherlock blew out a mouthful of smoke. "Made her an easy target. Or course," he mumbled. "I have to go look at the studio, later."

"Well, she's not dead yet," John said as he took a sip of the coffee. "And how do you know that she was taken here? There's no proof."

"Well, Ms. Woods said that when Lucy had left the house, she had taken her dance bag and told her she was coming studio. It's a very safe environment here. There are always one or two security guards around. Watching out for robbers and such. One of them has been around fairly much lately. I asked him and he said that he had watched her disappear up the stairs, but she never came out to the second floor."

"So she had to be taken at the stairs. Yet no one was seen going up or down the stairs?" John cocked his head to one side and crossed his arms, leaning back in his chair.

"She wasn't taken. It was an escape." Everyone turned to look at Sherlock, their eyes all spoke of confusion. "She was young, felt unwanted. So when someone offered to help her run away from it all, she took the chance. And completely disappeared, wiped off the face of Earth."

"So you're saying she was talked into it?" Roxanne looked incredulous.

"Not saying, knowing." He flicked ash onto the table, watching the embers flicker out. "You said that one security guard had been here a lot recently. Describe him for me."

"I don't know much about him. He has a night shift, so I never see his features closely, except for the day I asked him about Lucy. He was tall, had slicked back, dark brown hair. His eyes were dark, he was dressed in a normal security uniform. Nothing really special."

But Sherlock was already scribbling something in pencil on a piece of notebook paper that he had taken out from his pocket.

"Perhaps," he mumbled as he finished the last touches on the drawing, "He looked a little like this?" He flipped the paper up so the three could all see. The facial features, black beady, hateful eyes, crooked smile, there on the paper, was Moriarty.

"Oh, yes! Yes, exactly like that!" Roxanne exclaimed. "You know him?"

"Yes, I do." Sherlock closed his eyes. "Jim Moriarty."

"Who is he?"

His eyes opened to reveal sharp, blue irises. "My enemy."


End file.
